


Greed and First

by AndAllForAPrettyFace



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 11:41:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4178493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndAllForAPrettyFace/pseuds/AndAllForAPrettyFace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From DAKink prompt:</p>
<p>Cullen and F!Lavellan have been dancing around their attraction to each other for a while. Maybe they're both too shy to admit it. They flirt with each other and spend a lot of time with each other, everyone can see it.</p>
<p>Then Skyhold gets a visit from the Hero of Ferelden, f!human-mage preferred, and Cullen has conflicting past feelings resurface when he sees her.</p>
<p>But F!Amell is not a typical hero. She's manipulative, dominant and power-hungry, and she seduces a confused Cullen and sleeps with him.</p>
<p>Lavellan is heartbroken.</p>
<p>+ Cole comforting Lavellan<br/>+++ Shy Lavellan<br/>++++++++++ x kajillion happy ending for Cullen/Lavellan ^-^</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greed and First

“It’s alright,” she tells him, seeing the awkward lurch when the Hero of Ferelden arrives, after the ceremonies of greeting have been observed. “It’s alright, go on.”

 Cullen swallows. It’s taken all the nerve in him, these last few months, to stand at Ellana’s side and look her in the eye and wear the smile he feels in his heart. It’s been a miracle to see her return his shy smile with one of her own and hope that it means the same. It’s been a massive effort, to take her hand, kiss her knuckles, to dream of doing more but respect her hesitation when she shies away. It’s left him aching, to resist the urge to crush her in his arms and kiss her hair and lick traces down the ink on her face and finger her pert little breasts and—

 “It’s alright,” she insists, turning away. “You’re old friends, aren’t you?”

 Solona Amell stands a little ways off, resplendent in her blue and silver. The eight-pointed star at the head of her staff twinkles in the last light of dusk.

 Cullen swallows again. “Ellana,” he says quietly. “Please…”

 “No, it’s fine. I understand; go on.” She smiles shyly, touching his arm. She steps away lightly, like a hart toward fresh water, the quiver on her back obscuring her face as she turns from him.

 “Please,” he mumbles again, to no one in particular. _Please don’t leave me alone with her._

 

***

 

He remembers the first time he was left alone with Solona Amell, watching over her in the Circle Tower's library alcoves. He remembers the way she caught his eye and smiled, seeing him look overlong, seeing him blush.

He remembers the line of her legs, naked under her robes, as she lifted her skirt and teased him with her skin. He remembers trying to shy away but her soft, laughing insistence that he stay. He was a templar, and she was a mage, a danger, his charge. He mustn’t go.

He remembers watching her trace a finger up, up her legs, to the apex between them. He remembers how bloody uncomfortable and inconvenient an erection in full plate was.

And he remembers— Maker, he remembers her lips around his cock, and her hands on his thighs, and the tears on his cheeks as she gently, kindly, sweetly stole his virginity and his heart.

Cullen swallows. He glances after Ellana, but she’s gone, and Solona is beckoning, and there’s nowhere to run.

 

***

 

“Just a drink,” she says as she opens the door to her guest quarters, and Maker damn him, he’s a fool, and he believes her. It’s never just a drink.

But it’s not his fault, is it? The conversation flows freely. Talk of the war and the work comes naturally to him, and it somehow turns effortlessly into reminiscences of the old days (good or otherwise), and this funny memory, or that poor dearly departed soul, and for a little while, it seems like his fears were foolish, and he’s simply grateful, grateful to pass the time and a bottle of wine with an old friend. He watches her talk of the Wardens and the King, and her pretty lips purse, and her pretty bow wrinkles with distaste, and it’s like no time has passed.

Yet time has passed, and time is passing, and somehow, it’s midnight, and several bottles of wine are empty, and some sense of good sense struggles to the surface. He should go.

“Cullen,” she murmurs, stopping him.

His heart thuds in his chest.

“I missed you,” she says softly.

Cullen closes his eyes. Maker help him, but he missed her too, even if he can’t admit that. It’s been years and miles between them, and this is wrong, and his heart beats _Ellana, Ellana, Ellana_ , but the three syllables are slowly morphing in his muddled head into _Solona, Solona, Solona_.

She rises—a little giddy from the wine—and he can’t help his eyes on the gorgeous curve of her hip, and the warrior wit in her eye, and the rich auburn of her hair, and her damned, damned, thrice damned legs, somehow alluring even fully covered and armored.

_Ellana_ , he tries to remind himself.

“Didn’t you miss me?” she asks, her tone hurt.

He appears to be nodding. He blames the wine.

He’s touching her. He doesn’t understand why. She’s guiding him with her hands, reminding him of the steps, easing his fingers along the path, stripping away layer at a time, and when he fingers the soft thatch between her legs and hears her moan, he is rubber-kneed and lost.

 

***

 

In is mind, Ellana can hear them. In his muddled, guilty mind, she’s just on the other side, ear pressed to the wall. In his mind, she can hear every caress as his rough, clumsy hands stroke and bruise against Solona’s soft skin.

Solona cries out as he thrusts up into her. “ _Maker—!_ Oh, Maker, Cullen, you feel so good…”

She’s so different from Ellana – confident, willful, magic in her veins, fire in her eyes, little traces of make-up on her eyes, subtle scent dotting her neck. With all the guilt in his heart and in his gut, Cullen can’t help but remember how much he likes it like this, to have someone confidently telling him yes, and how to touch, and when to move—no hesitation, no doubt, only hungry desire and surety of need.

“Forgotten how big you are,” she grins, locking her legs along his sides. “Fuck, I can’t believe I’d forgotten that—oh, Cullen, my Cullen—”

But he’s _not_ hers, he wants to say. He’s not hers; he’s—he’s—

“Yes,” he chokes out, feeling her wet velvet heat squeezing down his length, so slow and sure and perfect, hating himself for saying it but unable to say anything else. “Maker, Solona, yes, please, yes—”

In his mind, Ellana is on the other side of the wall, and she is crying. Guilt stings his eyes.

Solona Amell grinds down, forcing him deeper, her sweet soprano crying out harder and louder as she finds her pace. Pinpricks of sweat dot her pale, gorgeous skin. Cullen’s shaking hands are on her breasts, squeezing nipples into stiff little peaks as she moans and cries. “My Cullen… my Cullen…”

She keeps him on the edge, slowing down each time he thinks he’s about to burst, and when she rolls off of him, it almost leaves him in tears of need. But she pulls him up next to her, and she guides his big, strong fingers down into her, crooking up inside her—all wet and hot and hungry—and when he makes her come on his trembling fingers, oh Maker, he’s never felt more powerful and grateful in his life, and she’s perfect, utterly perfect and utterly spent as she quakes around him, gasping his name and writhing and slick with sweat.

He watches her like that for a minute—gasping and smiling and panting—before he slips back into her, and she comes again almost immediately, and he follows her over the edge not long after, pounding into her and shouting exultation and clasping her shoulders with white-knuckled fingers.

In his mind, Ellana is on the other side of the wall, foetal on the floor, hands over her ears.

 

***

 

In the week of the Hero’s stay at Skyhold, she shares his bed three more times.

The first time, he almost tells her no, but she laughs, and her eyes do that thing they do when she laughs, and he’s lost.

The second time, she transitions from important political discussions to a covert, delicate hand stroking him through his trousers, and they barely make it back to her room before she’s cupping and stroking him, and he’s coming in her fingers like a horny teenage recruit, and her laughter is ringing in his ears until she convinces him to bring her off, over and over, until she’s glassy-eyed and helpless and he can get it up again and fuck her properly.

The third time, she surprises him in his office and won’t let him be until they’re up in the loft above his desk, naked and slicked with sweat, and she’s moaning his name into his mouth as he kisses her, deep and hard and over again. Cullen spends in her, shaking and silently begging the Maker for strength and forgiveness, but for a few seconds, his mind is empty, save for the image of Solona’s pretty face, and he can’t deny how good it feels, to have her sure, confident hands running up and down his chest, to have her lovely, smooth legs squeezing against him, to have naked pleasure without thought or explanation.

At the end of the week, the departure of the Wardens is cordial. He exchanges no special words with her, and Ellana is gracious in her farewells.

 

***

 

“You didn’t mean to hurt her,” that abomination that calls itself Cole mentions, apropos of nothing. “But you did. Little fingernail pricks to the heart, only scratches but they throb with every flexing of the muscle.”

Cullen says nothing. He’s barely trusted himself to talk to Ellana since.

And two days later, he overhears the abomination talking to Ellana. “Legs straining, praying, burning, exalting in ecstasy. Pleasure hotter than the midsummer sun. He pretends it was you, now. Even though he knows it wasn’t.” And he hears her voice break as she sends the boy away.

He does all he can do. He treats her with kindness. He favors her with smiles.

It takes a long time before she can meet his eyes to return them.

 

***

 

She’s Dalish. He marvels at what that means, between them, as she strips down.

She’s Dalish – she’s run half-naked under the moon and stars, with not a care in the world.

She’s Dalish – she had thought to remain untouched until a suitable man was bound to her as her mate, her spouse, a hunter as worthy as she was.

She’s Dalish – she is a perplexing combination of calm, quiet surety and wild freedom, and impossibly shy, blushing virginity.

Cullen strokes her long torso, her skin tan and tough from years of running outside under the noonday sun. Ellana’s frame is narrow and angular, where Solona’s—

No. He won’t think of Solona. Ellana deserves all of his attention, here and now, not comparing her to anything.

He’s teased and chided her before—for being so swift and sure-footed but so much slighter and weaker than he is. Never is that more evident than when she slumps in his arms, murmuring quietly as he strokes her breasts and hips.

He lifts her. She’s such a slight thing—slighter for the weeks of weeping and not eating enough, after he hurt her.

He’s uncomfortable, looming over her on the bed, dominant over her with her legs out long and wide, so slight and slender and easy to break in his strong hands. He wishes she would smile. He wishes she would take his hand, or tell him yes, or no, or harder, or more. He wishes that like Solona, she— _no._ He mustn’t think that. She is Ellana, and she is lovely and perfect just as she is, and if he can please her, then he will.

Oh sweet Maker, she’s so tight as he fingers her, just one finger, one callused finger easing in slick against her clit and making her yelp like a wolf pup. Breath heaves in her chest—this is new, and she is in awe, and she looks up at him like he’s a god, and Cullen feels a swell of love and joy in his chest as he flicks it again, and oh yes, she cries out, staring up at him in amazement and shock and _worship_ , worshipping him with wide, amazed eyes, and he’s really bloody hard right now, and he tries to keep it slow and gradual as he builds up the pace, but he also just wants to be inside her, but he mustn’t rush, but he wants her, but Solona, but Ellana, and oh, Maker—

She keens, surging up briefly and sinking back, hips rising weakly to meet his hand in half-hearted thrusts, riding out her first nervous, awkward orgasm with breathy whimpers and shudders and bliss and confusion.

Cullen kisses her gently as he straddles her, mounts her, eases in slowly and gently, but even as slick and ready as she is, she cries out into his mouth, and he feels anxious and ashamed. Has he hurt her? He’s not used to finesse. He’s not used to not-Solona. He wants to let go and ride her down and work up a sweat, but he has to think of her first.

Ellana gasps under him. She’s finding her way back to reality.

There are tears in her eyes, pained but happy.

When she gently pressures up against him, pushing his cock in to the hilt (she’s so small, clenching him, so narrow and small and tight), Cullen’s eyes roll back in his head, and he moans helplessly, as wanton and needy as a harlot in one of Varric’s bloody harlequin romances. The need to restrain himself and go slow is possibly the most frustrating and erotic thing he’s ever felt.

She’s whimpering his name—quiet, taut, like a mantra or a spell. It’s steady, but it’s slowly building.

He knows he won’t last—not with her so tight and slick and worshipful—

He pulls out, hearing her wail in protest, and turns her over onto all fours. He slides in from behind—cock knifing into tight cunt—and from the front—reaching around, fingers winding in between her legs, two fingers stretching her wider, circling her core, stroking her to completion, and the howls of pleasure she lets out are positively feral, and she’s bucking against him, shoving him in, so hard it hurts, but he doesn’t stop tracing swift, firm little circles around her clit until she’s slumped limp against the mattress, and he comes in her with a roar of pleasure.

They fall asleep, nestled together. Cullen presses his face to the back of her neck and pretends that sweat is the only thing leaving his face damp.

When the Hero of Fereldan returns in a few months, he makes himself conveniently absent.


End file.
